


Sons of Gondor

by Brenda



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:37:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1372510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere between Lothlorien and Amon Hen, Boromir and Aragorn have a discussion about leadership.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sons of Gondor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dellastarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dellastarr/gifts).



> Originally written in 2002 as a gift for Dellastarr. Borrows from movie and books canon.

  
" _There is weakness, there is frailty;_  
 _but there is courage also and honor to be found in Men."_  
\-- The Fellowship of the Ring 

  
Boromir didn't think he was going to make it back to Gondor. The Ring wasn't going to let him. But, it didn't matter. She wasn't there. And he had no hope to hold onto anymore. Nothing that mattered, nothing sacred, nothing to believe in. 

And he desperately needed to believe in something. 

When he'd held the broken hilt of Narsil in his roughened hands at Rivendell, he'd felt the power of Man, the hope, the great destiny. And he also felt the failure. 

Boromir shivered and drew his Elven cloak around him for warmth. Though they were only a few days away from the safe haven of Lothlorien, the Company had dared not risk a fire. So, he stood guard over the halflings in the chill of the woods along the bank of the Anduin and reflected on things better left unthought. 

He could not be like Isildur. 

He could not betray his people, his family, his Company for the sake of false hope and insidious whispers that haunted his every waking moment. He knew the Ring's siren call would lead him to damnation, but it was so hard to hang onto the conviction they were doing the right thing. Using the Ring to fight the Dark Lord still seemed like a viable alternative to this suicidal mission. 

But then, a suicidal mission would bring him that much closer to the Halls of Mandos. That much closer to Darea. 

She'd been dead for three unendurable years and yet he still missed her with every breath. People who said time heals had obviously never lost someone of value. The immortal time of the Elves would not heal the hollowness of his heart. 

Still, he had to find something to hold onto here. There was beauty yet to be found in this realm. He gazed up at the full moon under a cloudless, starry sky. The moon shot silver rainbows over the trees and ground, illuminating, casting back shadow. And while his warrior nature cursed the lack of darkness that would protect Frodo and the rest of the Company, his human heart ached at the splendor. 

For it was on a night such as this that he'd first opened his heart to Darea. That he'd first claimed lips sweeter than any mead or ale; that he'd felt unfettered, complete happiness for the first (and most likely last) time in his life. She had been his miracle, his reason to keep Gondor thriving. She had been his reason to live up to every one of his father's increasingly paranoid demands. 

But everyone knew miracles didn't exist. And Gondor had no future. Not unless he did something about it. He looked at Frodo, caught in a fretful sleep under the eave of a copse of trees and took a half step toward the Hobbit before stopping himself with a shake. 

No. 

He would not do this. 

Boromir had a sudden, almost violent urge to hear his brother's voice. Faramir's sheer presence would be enough to stave off these dark cravings. He wondered if his brother could sense his troubled spirit, his conflict. Long had he fought the demons that dwelt both in Mordor and in his soul and he feared, for the first time ever, that he was losing the battle. 

The thought scared him more than an army of the Dark Lord's Orcs. His soul may be tattered and torn, but it and honor were all he had left. And pride. 

He heard a slight movement from the trees behind him. He whirled around, sword in hand, ready to defend the Ringbearer and the others to the death, if need be. But, as soon as he'd turned, he loosened his grip on his weapon. It was only Aragorn, back from roving patrol. 

"Legolas and Gimli will be back soon," the Ranger stated softly, as he walked to the clearing and stood next to Boromir. "You should try to get some rest now. It will be light soon and you will need to save your strength for Anduin." 

"I have strength enough to do what needs to be done." At least, he did physically. 

"You have been almost Elven in your endurance," Aragorn admitted, absently rubbing the necklace Arwen had given to him in Rivendell. "Why are you in such a hurry to reach Tol Brandir? Is Gondor's need so dire? Or is there perhaps another, more personal, reason you desire to seek the walls of the White City?" 

Boromir shook his head and sunk to the ground, leaning against the rough bark. "No, there is nothing for me there now." And admitting it broke his heart again. How was it possible to still feel this much pain? He looked up at Aragorn, who stood silent and watchful. "Only a father in need of his eldest son, a brother in need of his sibling and a city in need of leadership. I would be there to give it to them." Pride drove him to say words he wasn't even sure he believed anymore. 

Aragorn dropped to his haunches and touched a dirty hand to his forehead in salute. "Remember that you will not face the darkness of Mordor alone." 

Yes, Aragorn had pledged his weapon. As had Legolas and Gimli. And Boromir would take them gladly, for these folk, however disparate, were his comrades, his kin, as close to him as his own blood brother. But still he feared their help would come too late and Gondor would pay too heavy a price. Who was to even say their mission to destroy the Ring would succeed? If Gandalf the almighty Istari could fall, what chance did the rest of them have? 

He must stop these thoughts. They would drive him mad. He had the Company, he had Isildur's heir and he had the Ringbearer and the Ring of Power. Their quest had been ordained by Elrond himself. It would not fail. _He_ would not fail. 

"Tell me what plagues you, brother." Aragorn took a last look around the parameter of the camp, looking for any signs of danger. He didn't know if it was the strain of too many nights without sleep, but he could feel something dark in the air. Perhaps it was the unease he felt from Boromir. Aragorn felt the other man's strain as vividly as if it was he himself who felt it. 

And perhaps he did. 

He'd had misgivings about this quest from almost the beginning. As Boromir had so eloquently stated, it was folly. What had made him think he was ready to claim his throne, to reforge Narsil, to prove that Numenorean blood still ran true in his veins? 

All he had was the faith of a woman he could not have, the belief of a wizard fallen and the grudging respect of a man he was almost desperate not to let down. With a dozen men of Boromir's strength and purpose, Aragorn could march through the Paths of the Dead to the Black Gates themselves and feel nothing except victory within his grasp.


End file.
